Phantom Limb Page 22

  Truth was, it sounded good. A nice break from the almost unbearable stress I’d been under. Besides, since I’d cancelled my clients for the day, the only thing on my calendar was a meeting with the Feds. To repeat the same detailed statement I’d given to Lieutenant Biegler. With the same deletions.

  “Okay, Sam. One o’clock. See you then.”

  I got out of my car and headed up the block to Noah’s place. And felt myself actually breathe, perhaps for the first time since crouching beside Arthur Drake’s lifeless body. It would be a relief to see an old friend like Sam, though I knew he’d probably pump me again for information about the Harlands.

  I was wrong. Because what I didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to make it to that lunch tomorrow.

  ***

  Noah’s Ark boasted a pretty good crowd for a Sunday night. Most of the tables were filled, and there were only a few empty stools at the bar. As I took one, I caught sight of Charlene, laden with a tray of dishes, bustling out of the kitchen.

  I called across the room for Noah, who was leaning against the back wall, eyes closed in wordless rapture. Engrossed in the sounds being laid down by the classic jazz trio up on the dais. Piano, upright bass, and drums. Doing a tasty cover of Herbie Hancock’s “The In Crowd.”

  The musicians finished to a listless round of applause from their distracted audience. Then Noah, shaking his head sadly, went back behind the bar and made his way up to where I sat. His meaty forearms hit the polished counter with a moist thud.

  “Philistines.” His raised eyebrows conveyed a sweeping indictment of the paying customers all around us. “They wouldn’t know great music if it came up and shook hands with ’em. All these morons come here to do is drink and spend money.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  He gave me an exaggerated frown. “Only for payin’ the bills, Danny boy. What I’m tryin’ to do is provide something for their sorry-ass souls. If any of ’em still got one. I’m a man with a mission, as you well know.”

  I asked for a Jack Daniels, straight, which he somewhat glumly poured. Another patron, three stools over—middle-aged, balding, and sporting an unfortunate soul patch—tried to get Noah’s attention, but he ignored him.

  “You understand what I’m talkin’ about, don’tcha, Danny?”

  “I think so. But let’s face it, I’m not that cool myself.”

  “That’s ’cause you think small. To paraphrase the Bible, ‘Act as if you have cool, and cool will be given unto you.’”

  I laughed. “Man, you’re full of quotes lately.”

  “He’s full of somethin’, all right…”

  This was from the guy with the soul patch. When Noah turned, the unsmiling man held up his empty beer mug.

  “Hey, what the fuck—?!” Noah headed down the bar toward him. “Was I talkin’ to you, asshole?”

  The guy stiffened. I tensed, watching the two of them closely. The customer was already half in the bag. Unfortunately for him, he was also half Noah’s size.

  “Noah!” I called out. He stopped in his tracks, head swiveling at the sound of my voice. “Cut the crap and give the guy another beer. On me, okay?”

  Noah’s big shoulders rose and fell, to the accompaniment of a massive sigh. He somberly nodded. Grabbing up the frightened customer’s mug, he refilled it at the tap. Then slammed it back down on the bar.

  “Appreciate your business,” he mumbled. “Come again.”

  Then he lumbered back up to my end of the bar.

  “Sorry, Danny. Just havin’ a bad night.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soul Patch finish his beer in two great gulps and hurry away from the bar. Looked like he left a nice tip, too. But my focus was on Noah.

  “You get in touch with Nancy Mendors about your meds? You might need to make some changes.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I am feelin’ a little wigged-out. I mean, even more than usual.”

  “Okay. If you don’t mind, I’ll give Nancy a call. But maybe you could close up the place a bit earlier tonight.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement, Herr Doctor.”

  Then he offered me that familiar, pained grin. Below a pair of eyes burning with intensity. Holding either barely contained madness or profound knowledge of the Infinite. Or both.

  Noah left abruptly to serve other customers, giving me some privacy for my call to Nancy. I got her service, and left a message detailing my concerns about Noah’s behavior. Luckily, she always welcomed my input. Noah was as much her friend as her patient, and we both worried about him.

  Though neither one of us fretted more than Charlene, who was suddenly standing next to me. Order pad in her pocket, she’d taken a quick break from waiting tables.

  “I hope you were just talking to Dr. Mendors on the phone, Danny. Noah’s got me a little worried.”

  “Me, too. But he’s not delusional. Anyway, I left a message on Nancy’s machine. She’ll take care of it.”

  “I know. Thank God for that woman.” Charlene blew a long stray curl of sweaty hair from her forehead. “And I could also say the same for you. I really appreciate your bailing Skip out of the mess at that store yesterday. And, yes, he finally broke down and told me about it.”

  “Glad I could help. I like your brother a lot.”

  “He feels the same way about you. Just this morning, he called and said, ‘Bugs, that Rinaldi guy’s all right.’”

  “Bugs?”

  “For Bugs Bunny. My nickname when we were kids. I had these two buck teeth that made me look like a rabbit. At least, that’s what he said. You know what shits little brothers are.”

  “Not from my own experience, but I’ve heard.”

  Charlene sighed. “Just don’t tell Noah about it. Or else he’ll be calling me ‘Bugs’ the rest of my natural life.”

  I sipped my drink. “Nicknames do have a way of sticking.”

  “Funny. That’s what happened to Skip. Everybody always called him that growing up, and he liked it fine. So he kept it. Not that I blame him. Not with the real name my parents saddled him with.”

  “Yeah? What was it?”

  “Julian. Now what kinda name is that for a kid?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Harry Polk was not the kind of guy who liked unexpected visitors knocking on his door. Especially at midnight.

  I’d been doing just that for almost a minute before his apartment door finally opened a crack, and I was favored with one bleary, suspicious eye. As well as a glimpse of a threadbare robe, thrown over a baggy pair of boxer shorts.

  “Rinaldi? What the fuck are ya doin’ here? Ya got any idea what time it is?”

  I glanced at my watch. “I know exactly. But I had to talk to you, Harry. It’s important.”

  “Well, guess what? They got this newfangled thing now called the telephone. Has little numbers on it and everything.”

  “I figured, if I called, you’d just hang up.”

  “Good guess.”

  He started to close the door, but I pushed back against it with the palm of my hand. “Come on, Harry. It’s important. About the Lisa Campbell kidnapping. I think I may know who’s behind it.”

  “Yeah? Me, too. Prick named Ray Sykes.”

  “Unless he’s working with or for somebody else. A guy who calls himself Skip Hines. Though his real name is Julian.”

  He blinked, brow darkening. “Are you shittin’ me? Julian?…”

  Polk stopped pushing back against me, and let the door open a few inches wider.

  “How the hell do you know this?”

  “Long story. Now are you gonna let me in or not?”

  “Fuck that, Rinaldi. We ain’t that close. Besides, talkin’ to you always makes me thirsty. Gimme five minutes.”

  He slammed the door shut, leaving me alone in the quiet, diml
y lit hallway. Harry Polk was still living in the forlorn Wilkinsburg apartment complex he’d moved into after his marriage ended. The majority of the tenants were elderly, or, like Harry, recently divorced. Yet most of the latter soon moved to better, more congenial accommodations. Providing, if only to themselves, external confirmation that they’d moved on with their lives.

  But not Harry. After he and Maddie split, he took what few possessions he had and burrowed into this place like a wounded animal. And showed little sign of making a change any time soon.

  As I waited for him, I thought about the call I’d made to Gloria Reese on the drive here from Noah’s place. Though I’d tried her cell, she was at home in her South Side loft when she picked up. I remembered her mentioning once that it was the only asset she’d received from her divorce. Anyway, unlike Harry, she was still awake, and had just brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea to help her wind down. So she could finally sleep.

  After checking to see how she was holding up, and getting her usual stiff-upper-lip reply, I asked her two questions: did she have access to the FBI’s database from her home computer? And, if so, would she be willing to do me a favor? Naturally enough, she said it depended on what the favor was.

  I told her.

  Now, rocking back and forth on my heels, I felt a growing impatience. Harry’s five minutes had clearly come and gone. I was just about to pound on his door again when it opened. The sergeant was wearing a faded Penquins sweatshirt over wrinkled pants and his customary Florsheim shoes.

  “This better be worth it, Rinaldi. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “You get no argument from me, Harry. Where to?”

  “Where do ya think?”

  ***

  The Spent Cartridge was an old cop bar uncomfortably wedged between two downtown high-rises, its wood-framed facade and buzzing neon signs a stark reminder of the blue-collar past now being gradually supplanted by the city’s gentrification.

  The place was just getting its second wind, so to speak, in that the precinct shift change brought with it a wave of off-duty uniforms and plainclothes dicks. Luckily, Polk and I had found seats in a corner booth before the bar filled to standing-room-only capacity.

  Nursing an Iron City, Harry sat staring at me across the booth table. By agreement on the drive here, I wasn’t to talk about the case until he’d been—in his words—properly lubed.

  At last, contemplating my own whiskey glass, I recounted my conversation with Charlene.

  “After she told me her brother’s given name was Julian, I tried to probe some more, but without arousing her suspicions. Mostly because Charlene’s a friend of mine. Besides, this thing about Skip’s real name could just be a wild coincidence.”

  “Ya don’t really believe that, do ya?”

  “Honestly, no. Especially when she told me a little more about his life. Turns out, after a stint in the Marines, he went to work in high-level security. A company called Starr Sentinel, which happens to be the same firm that Mike Payton used to work for. Before going solo and hooking up with the Harlands.”

  “Payton and this Julian Hines both worked for Starr?”

  “Right. And when I casually asked if her brother ever mentioned this other guy I knew—Mike Payton—she said yes. That Skip had talked about him more than once, and seemed to like the guy. He and Payton were on the same tactical team at Starr. Doing security work for CEOs, celebrities. That kinda thing.”

  Polk distractedly took a swallow of beer.

  “So what happened to Julian? I mean, did he quit the job when Payton did?”

  I shook my head. “According to Charlene, he stayed on a couple more months. But she says he always found civilian life difficult to manage. Confusing. So he re-enlisted and was sent back to Afghanistan, where he lost a leg in combat.”

  “Jesus.” Polk massaged the dark stubble on his chin. “So you think this lady’s brother is the same Julian who called the Harland house? Who ran the whole show?”

  “Either he ran it or worked in partnership with Sykes. Think about it, Harry. Julian Hines is a former Marine, and the kidnapping felt like some kind of paramilitary op from the very beginning. Remember, we know about Sykes’ background in the military. Griffin’s, too. Maybe the three of them planned the whole thing together. Like a military maneuver.”

  “Maybe. Anything else?”

  “I think that Julian—just like Mike Payton—had to know a lot about home security, having worked for Starr. In fact, the security system at the Harland house—the cameras, the off-site monitoring, everything—had all been installed and maintained by Starr Sentinel. It was the company Payton recommended to Charles Harland when he first came to work for the old man. Probably because he felt familiar with the company and its technology.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I put in a call to Agent Gloria Reese before I showed up at your door. She could access a lot of it because Payton had, at the FBI’s insistence, sent them a copy of the personnel data from the Harland files—which included Payton’s own employment history, as well as the contract that Charles Harland, at Mike’s suggestion, had signed with Starr Sentinel.”

  “Then maybe we should be lookin’ at Mike Payton.”

  “Funny, because Arthur Drake had his own suspicions about Payton. He told me before he died that he believed Payton was behind Lisa’s kidnapping. But I don’t see it, Harry. For one thing, Payton was in Harland’s office with the rest of us when the first ransom call came in. Just as he was in the library, in plain sight, when Julian called with his second demand.”

  What I didn’t tell Harry was the real reason I ruled out any involvement on Payton’s part. Namely, that he was still in love with Lisa. At least it looked that way to me.

  “I don’t care that he was there when the calls came in,” Polk was saying. “Doesn’t mean Payton couldn’t be in on it. A silent partner, or whatever. It’s worth checkin’ into, that’s for damn sure.”

  “I think the same thing’s true about Julian Hines. Of course, I didn’t give Charlene the slightest clue that I had any suspicions about her brother. She just thought we were talking about his past because I was interested.”

  “In other words, since everyone knows what a nosy, head-shrinkin’ bastard you are, she didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “Well, I guess that’s another way to look at it.”

  He threw back the rest of his beer. “You talk to anyone else about this? Other than Reese?”

  “No. And all I asked her to do was look up stuff about Mike Payton. I told her I was curious about his military background and employment history before coming to work for Harland.”

  “She didn’t ask why?”

  “Sure she did. I told her it was personal.”

  Polk considered this. “So she’d assume you couldn’t talk about it. Which suggested that Payton had approached you about wantin’ therapy. So if she did ask you, you couldn’t say squat. Nice move, Doc. Sneaky, but nice.”

  “The point is, Harry, you’re the one I’ve come to about Julian Hines. I sure as hell don’t want to alert Biegler or Agent Wilson. In case I’m way off base, I don’t want to cause Skip—or Charlene, for that matter—any additional grief.”

  “But even if you’re right, Rinaldi, what’s the motive?”

  “Behind the kidnapping? What else? The money. Skip’s been floundering since he got shipped home. God knows, a lot of returning vets go through that. Especially those who’ve been seriously injured. Though many still end up doing well, as long as they’re given proper medical and psychological support.”

  “But not this Skip character?”

  “Not based on my two interactions with him. I don’t think he’s sought treatment anywhere. My impression is of a guy who’s wired tight as a drum. With nothing to show for his two tours of duty but a missing leg and a heart full of anger and resentment
. Meanwhile, people like the Harlands live like kings.”

  Polk nodded soberly. Then gestured to a passing waitress for a refill. She swept up his mug and hurried away.

  “Remember, too,” I went on, “the Harland fortune came from building armaments. War machines. For a wounded vet like Skip, the painful irony of that must seem intolerable. How fitting, then, to grab some of that blood-stained cash for himself?”

  The waitress returned with the full mug and vanished again into the crowd. Polk took a long pull, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Nice theory, Rinaldi. Except you left out the proof. Got any, or are you just flappin’ your gums?”

  “Isn’t that where you come in, Sergeant? Not that I’m just dumping all this in your lap. Maybe I can do some more digging myself, and—”

  “Watch it, Doc. I know you get a lotta leeway from the brass ’cause you’re sorta on the job. But remember, you’re just supposed to consult. So, okay, you consulted. Now leave it be.”

  “But you’re going to follow up, aren’t you? Discreetly, I mean. Like I say, I want to shield Charlene—and her brother—from unnecessary pain or embarrassment.”

  In answer, Polk merely sipped his beer. I swear I could almost see the gears slowly grinding in his skull.

  Finally, he leaned back in his seat.

  “This Julian thing is a real lead, no doubt about it. So I’ll look into it. But at least we agree about one thing. I don’t wanna shake Biegler’s tree ’til I have somethin’ solid. And I sure ain’t gonna let the Feds in on it.”

  He let out a ponderous sigh.

  “The pisser is, to do this right, I gotta go solo. If anybody gets wind o’ this at the precinct, I’ll have Biegler so far up my ass I’ll be eatin’ for both of us.”

  “What about Jerry Banks? Your new partner?”

  “Let me see. He’s young, green, and I don’t trust him. That about cover it?”